


Complement

by Kat Morgan (Wren_K)



Category: The Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Early Work, First Meetings, Gen, Magnificent Seven AU: ATF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2019-07-03 12:23:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15818805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wren_K/pseuds/Kat%20Morgan
Summary: "Mr. Larabee. Mr. Larabee."Chris barely turned to acknowledge his pursuer. The very determined voice belonged to a dark-haired kid who practically had to run to keep up with Chris' ground eating stride. He carried a packet of papers clutched to his chest like a shield.





	Complement

**Author's Note:**

> An expansion of a drabble challenge posed by Phyllis on the Darlin's list ages ago.

"Mr. Larabee. Mr. Larabee."

Chris barely turned to acknowledge his pursuer. The very determined voice belonged to a dark-haired kid who practically had to run to keep up with Chris' ground eating stride. He carried a packet of papers clutched to his chest like a shield. 

Clerk, Chris decided abruptly. Damn it, his search warrant was in order. The probable cause was good. Every 'I' was dotted; every 'T' was crossed. He'd triple checked each detail obsessively. Nothing could go wrong with this case -- his first major one since his leave of absence. His first with the team of misfits he'd fought so hard to assemble. He needed everything to go smoothly; needed to prove to the doubters that he hadn't lost his nerve or gone off the deep end. He needed to prove it to himself.

"If I could just get a moment," the kid said.

Chris drew up short. "The paperwork is fine," he snarled, glaring down at the annoyance. Most sensible people would have read the potential for violence in his scowl and fled.

The kid blinked, confusion flickered in his eyes. "But I haven't..." Understanding lit his features. "Oh, no. I'm not-- I don't work here." He glanced around the courthouse lobby, his rhythm thrown off by the misunderstanding. "Your secretary said I might catch you here. My flight leaves in a couple hours, and I wanted to make sure you got this." He thrust the packet at Chris.

The blond ATF agent glanced at the papers without moving to take them. "What is it?" he asked, harsher than was strictly necessary.

"My application," the kid only fumbled for a moment. "You're looking for a computer tech. I'm your man."

Chris really looked at the kid for the first time. He'd guess his age at somewhere between seventeen and twenty. With dark, tousled hair that Chris guessed some would consider fashionable though it was clearly beyond regulations. Not that regulations mattered much to the team he was building; he'd sooner shave a hungover grizzly than try to make his latest hire, Tanner, cut his hair. The kid was dressed in inexpensive, but tidy clothes. His best, if Chris guessed correctly. He wouldn't have looked out of place interning for some tech company; but he was worlds away from the image of an elite federal agent.

"No," Chris didn't elaborate and he didn't leave any room for argument in his tone either.

That didn't stop the kid. "You haven't looked at my resume," there was no sulk in the kid's tone, just determination. "I've read the specs. I know what you're looking for, and I'm it."

"No, you're not," Chris was firm. "If you read the posting, you know this is a field position. I need a seasoned agent. Not a kid with a degree who thinks having high score on a video game is the same thing as being a real cop."

"I have been in the field," the kid was insistent, but there was a note of nervousness now -- a trace of desperation. "I've got three years with Boston PD. If I stay, I'll be detective in another year." He was proud of that; Chris could hear it in his voice. Damned kid had no idea how heavy that gold shield would be.

"Go home, kid. You're not the type."

"You're wrong, Mr. Larabee." There was that tone again; so certain, as if he knew this would end in his favor. "A man comes to you and tells you that he admires you and that he wants to work with you. The least you could do is look at his resume."

"You haven't exactly said you admire me," Chris said wryly, warming to the kid despite his better judgment. People didn't stand up to him often, but the young man was making one heck of an attempt to.

"I didn't fly halfway across the country for my health," the kid shot back. He held out the paperwork again. "I'm just asking to be considered. Please, contact my references. Read the letters." 

Chris took the packet, glancing at the name on the cover page. John D. Dunne. He wondered if Dunne knew just how open the pleading in his eyes was. "No promises, kid. But I'll look this over." He tapped the resume lightly.

"Yes!" The exclamation burst out in an excited breath. Chris was amused to see the start of a victory fist pump before Dunne remembered himself and regained his composure. "Thank you, sir," Dunne shook his hand, solid and quick. At least someone had taught the kid how to shake hands properly.

Chris made his goodbyes with a firm admonishment not to call. If the Bureau wanted to do business with him, they knew how to get in touch. Dunne had nodded solemnly, as if he didn't actually believe his bravado had worked.

Three hours later, Chris still couldn't believe it had.

He had to be insane -- considering taking on a kid that young, that raw. This new team of his -- his grand experiment as Travis referred to them -- was already a collection of malcontents. Agents with stellar reputations for individual work, but a documented history of strife within a team setting.

There was Buck Wilmington. His best friend, though Chris wondered if he really had the right to call him that anymore. He hadn't been kind to Buck in the three years since the bombing that had claimed his wife and son. It had been Buck who had finally coaxed Chris away from the bottle and back to the world. The gregarious scoundrel had called Chris up after a year of silence, cussing his lieutenant a blue streak. They'd reacquainted themselves while Buck was on suspension; the details of which he'd been deliberately fuzzy about.

At the cheap linoleum table in the back corner of the equally cheap watering hole -- Chris' residence for a better part of the past three years, Buck told him about Judge Travis' appointment as field director of the local branch of the ATF. And of the job offer he'd extended to Buck. A job offer Buck would be a lot happier about if he knew who would be watching his back. Things had clicked into place after that with speed and ease that made Chris suspect he'd been set up.

Buck had recommended an agent of his acquaintance for the team. Nathan Jackson was as solid as they came. His work was meticulous, his medical experience an obvious asset; but time and time again his performance reviews mentioned a defensive attitude and inability to gel within a team setting. Chris was surprised when they met. Rather than bristling hostility, he'd found Jackson to be plain spoken and bluntly honest. He'd also seen warmth in the man and absolute trustworthiness.

On Jackson's word, Chris had recruited his friend Josiah Sanchez. The profiler had once headed the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit. Six years previous, he'd walked away from a brilliant career and dropped off the grid. Everyone Chris spoke to hinted at a deeply fractured man, dangerous to friend and foe alike. It took Chris and Nathan a week in Mexico to find Josiah. Buck accompanied them on the trip, though his search efforts never seemed to stray beyond the beaches and cantinas. They finally found Josiah tending the collapsed wall of an abandoned parish. For a moment Chris feared the rumors of his breakdown were true. But behind the self-imposed atonement, Chris had found a lively mind and startling sense of humor. It had been easy to extend the offer, and Chris did so without reservation.

Ezra Standish proved to be another matter entirely. He'd been thrust upon Chris by Travis, despite the director's initial promise to stay strictly hands off. There was a history there somewhere, though Chris was damned if he could figure it out. Some days, Chris swore that Ezra deliberately baited him; as though daring him to expel him from the team. Still, Chris couldn't deny that the man was damned good at his job. His track record of arrests and convictions that resulted from his stints in deep cover was impressive. But the man was impossible to work with; or at least, that's what everyone he'd ever worked with said. For that first awkward month, Chris feared he had made a mistake with Standish. Though lately he was starting to see cracks in the southerner's austere persona. 

It was no coincidence, in Chris' mind, that Standish's walls started slipping with the arrival of the team's most recent addition. The prickly undercover agent seemed to respond to the quiet presence of their new tactical ops man in a way that gave Chris hope that he would some day manage to play nice with the rest of the team.

Vin Tanner. A man whose past was so locked up in shadow, the woman who conducted his background investigation had thrown the file at Chris and promptly left on her first vacation in ten years. Chris had expected a hard case, what he got was a scruffy Texan who was so damned quiet you could forget he was there while you were looking right at him. And a wry sense of humor that had surprised his new teammates more than once. Chris couldn't explain the connection he felt to the younger man, but he'd made up his mind about hiring him before the first question was asked in the interview. There was something comfortable in Tanner's presence. Chris didn't bother to question the implicit trust he felt.

So there they were, six grown men who had each been written off as a lost cause. Misfits to a man. Somehow they'd formed a cohesive unit. It defied logic. And now Chris was contemplating throwing a fresh-faced kid to the wolves. He rubbed his temples. They'd devour the kid inside a week.

The memory of Dunne standing up to him at the courthouse filtered back to Chris. He smiled to himself. Okay, a week and a half.

They needed an electronics man. In a world of increasingly complex technology, blazing guns wouldn't even get you through the front door anymore.

Chris glared at the resume as if the stiff linen paper could solve his conundrum.

Dunne's technical skills would compliment the specialties he'd already assembled for his team; but Chris couldn't help studying the photo in the background packet. The listed accomplishments seemed incongruent with the young features. Dunne had largely played supporting roles in the cited cases; but the letters of recommendation spoke of such glowing potential that Chris would be crazy to ignore his application. The phone calls Chris placed only confirmed the kid's boast. He was exactly what Chris was looking for.

If only he didn't look so damned young.

Chris closed the file. Dunne made seven. A full complement. He had his team.


End file.
